


and i'm never ready

by pigeonfancier



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Faerûn, Gen, Necromancy, The Mere of the Dead Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-16 07:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17545349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/pigeonfancier
Summary: "Ah." You take a long sip of the water they'd left out for you, only mostly to stall. Your throat still burns. Necromancy's always left you more ill at ease than the other acolytes, with symptoms that last hours, but clear water has always helped alleviate them quicker. "He's Kelemvor Lyonsbane, the Lord of the Dead, the Judge of the Damned, and the Keeper of All Who Pass Through Unclaimed. He is the god of death, and the dead, may they rest in peace. I saw you had a temple to Sune, in the village I passed through..?""Oh, Redwarren's Watch? They're all a bunch of Sunites over there," they sniff, with a dismissive flap of their hands."My apologies for having to deal with that. Ah. The most important thing you need to know about my lord," you say, and lean forward, "is that, firstly, he is a just and noble god. And secondly, to be perfectly frank, compared to her, he fucking owns."Rose, a newly minted Cleric of Kelemvor at age 17, goes on his first solo mission. The fighting goes well. Mingling with the villagers afterwards: not so much.





	and i'm never ready

**Author's Note:**

> _and I'm never ready_  
>  'cause I know, I know, I know  
> that time won't let me  
> show what I want to show  
> i move slow and steady  
> but I feel like a waterfall  
> yeah, I move slow and steady  
> past the ones that I used to know  
> \- slow and steady, monsters and men

* * *

# ROSE | AGE 17  
MERE OF THE DEAD MEN | FAERUN

* * *

"All things considered," you call out, stepping back from the door, "I am not a fan of murder. If you could come out, good sir, then I would be open to discussions over what, exactly, kind of magic you are practicing, and if it is in violation of the anti-necromancy laws, which you may know more typically as common fucking sen --"

You step back from the door just in time for the ball of energy to smash right through it.

It skims right past your nose, and even that glancing pass feels like you swallowed a mouthful of mold, and now it's clogging your lungs, thick and heady enough that you can't breathe around it. You wheeze, shaking your head, but you don't let yourself falter more than that. Death is unpleasant. But it's a sensation that, over the past year, you've become entirely too fucking familiar with.

And you know how this dance goes. First, they fling a ball of something or another, and then -

The first body staggers out, its mouth gaping open, the jaw hanging on by thin threads. Air keeps wheezing out of it, too high to count as a groan, too weak to count as a scream. Magical constructs, you think, are the worst kind. If it was just some biological abomination, the eyes would be too clouded to know that you're here.

But it's magical. It turns those cloudy eyes upon you without hesitation, staggering forward with the great, vast claws of it reaching out to strike.

You don't give it a chance. Your mace hits it straight in the head. The sinew snaps, too loud in the silence of the village, and then you slam your boot dead in the center of the chest. It crunches under your foot, hitting the ground - then you stomp down on the neck, just to make sure it stays down.

"There is no need for that," you snarl into the dark house. "If you surrender, I will be gentle!"

From inside the house, there's nothing, so you square your shoulders, take a deep, greedy breath of clean air, and stride in.

It takes you four dead ghouls, two animated skeletons, and two hours before you find the mage hidden away in the storm cellar.

By the time you emerge, your braids half-scorched, blood steadily pouring from your face, there's just a great deal of bodies.

There's a crowd waiting. When they see you, they all rush forward. Someone tosses out a blanket, still wet with something you hope is water: by the time you push it off your face, so you can peer under the brim, someone else is shoving a mug of something steaming in your hands. "We thought you were dead, young man," an older human scolds you, his face red and blotching. A woman beside him clucks, disapproving, as she reaches out to adjust the blanket over you.

"Don't you start on him! He did his best, and look at that, he did better than his best. Isn't his fault, is it, if Gregory went and lost his marbles?"

"It's his fault for just - knocking the head off of some blighter and rushing in like that!"

"I'm sorry?" you say, hesitant. The blood loss is making you hazy, perhaps, but - no, it's not that making her town confusing, because the woman turns and frowns at you.

"Don't apologise to him!"

"He'll apologise if he damn well pleases --"

"Brother needs some space, neighbours," someone calls out, and pushes the both of them away. The someone, as it turns out, is yet another human - and the sheer amount of them out on the Material Plane has yet to stop startling you, even after nearly a half decade. Or maybe it's just that everything feels a little surprising right now.

They curl their lips at you, and their voice's sympathetic as they take you in: "He needs some air. Ain't that right? That's a wicked wound you've got going."

"It is fine. And - some air would be nice," you say, more of a murmur. They nod, brisk, and herd the rest away. You keep the blanket, and the mug, but by the time you've taken a sip and swallowed, the crowds back at a distance. And you can pull your thoughts together enough to remember what you're meant to say.

"People of the Mere." Is the blanket too undignified? Likely, you decide, so you shrug it off, fold it awkwardly over an arm instead. It hangs rough over the scalemail, but it's better than the mug. "People of the Mere," you begin again, "your call was heard, and the plague within your towns veins has been purged. Gregory has returned to whatever god holds him near, and the dead will no longer walk in this town. This house must be left empty for six days and six nights, to allow death to escape from its halls, but afterwards, it may be reclaimed again. Thank you for your patience."

You take a deep breath. It's hard, after the drink. The air burns your lungs. "Thank you," you say, holding eye contact with each villager in turn, "for your faith in Kelemvor, and for alerting the church as to this menace. There is no greater evil than those who would create life from something which is meant not to live. To reject a construct - some false mimic of life like this - some would say is cruel. What harm can a golem do? What cruelties would your dead perform upon you?"

"Endless," you say, your voice lifting high, "for they do not have souls, and without a soul, how is one to possess morals? Emotions? Any greater desire? It leaves an emptiness within a body, one which cannot be filled, and in its absence - in that endless fucking hunger, that pain that gnaws away at them, day after day - a creature will take anything, do anything, to try to find something to replace it. They are not to be hated. They are to be pitied, and to be treated to the judgement of the lord."

"We do not suffer a construct to live," you say, and the crowd's gone silent. "We do not suffer those who would create them. The Lord of the Dead smiles upon you, and when your time comes, may his judgement --"

The next part, as you'd learned in the temple, is easy. You just take one long step forward, your mace squared above you, and you call out to Kelemvor, and you strike it into the ground. It requires so little of your strength to call upon him like that, even an acolyte can manage it. And it's the sort of proof of his favour that villagers need, sometimes, when you emerge with their deceased's gore on your blade, or smeared across your face.

So you lift the mace high.

Then you teeter back as the world abruptly tips, and land flat on your ass.

"- may his judgement be swift," you squeak.

The crowd is back around you in a moment.

* * *

The two elder humans wish to draw straws to decide whom you go with, but in the end, the stranger is the one who decides for the lot of you. Their name is Creed, and they are the owner of the nearest farm, barely twenty minutes walk away. Someone lends the two of you her horse, just for the night, so you're there before the wooziness entirely clears.

They let you lean on them all the way into the house, then deposit you on one of the chairs. Their kitchen is small, but homey. It suits them. Creed is of the stock that you're beginning to recognise as common to the Sword Coast: with features as worn as the chair you're sitting on, lank-haired, with large, swollen eyes and a gauntness that hints at elf blood or malnutrition.

The longer that you're in this swamp, the more that you're beginning to think it's the latter. That's why, when they offer to share their dinner with you, you reject.

"I only eat meals that have been sanctified by the light of my lord," you demurr, holding up your free hand. The other is busy holding a cloth to your head, to keep dust off of the stitches 'til they set. Your answer's a lie, of course, but it's the sort that anyone could understand. You're twice their weight, at the most generous.

And you're not sure if the bread and meat they're offering would even satisfy you, after the evening you've had.

They blink at you, head tilting to the side. It's the sort of gesture that Mother Dawn has always made, the one that she told you means confusion. "Is that so?" they say. "I've never met a gravedigger that serious. You always like this?"

"Ah -"

"Sorry," they say easily, and they sit down in their chair, placing the bread on their own plate. In Sigil, you only ever ate produce grown in your parents own garden. Here, they eat meat, and she bites into the leg of chicken with a brutish sort of enthusiasm. Between bites, she says: "- that was rude of me. And no call for it, after all the good you've done. Tell me about your god, brother, that's so against breaking bread. Is he a lord of pestilence, to be this fearful?"

People don't generally ask after your god. They'll feed you readily enough, after your work is done, and give you a bed for the night, but they never linger near. Few find you palatable for long, at least not among those worth knowing.

You're certain most people - most good people - can sense the contagion within you, the same evil that haunts your dreams at night and calls to you in your darkest hours. It's why you've never blamed others for your isolation, no matter how difficult it can be. But if Creed feels that miasma, they give no sign. They're watching you readily, like they've got no doubt that you'll speak, and you.. enjoy it, you think.

It's nice.

"Ah." You take a long sip of the water they'd left out for you, only mostly to stall. Your throat still burns. Necromancy's always left you more ill at ease than the other acolytes, with symptoms that last hours, but clear water has always helped alleviate them quicker. "He's Kelemvor Lyonsbane, the Lord of the Dead, the Judge of the Damned, and the Keeper of All Who Pass Through Unclaimed. He is the god of death, and the dead, may they rest in peace. I saw you had a temple to Sune, in the village I passed through..?"

"Oh, Redwarren's Watch? They're all a bunch of Sunites over there," they sniff, with a dismissive flap of their hands.

"My apologies for having to deal with that. Ah. The most important thing you need to know about my lord," you say, and lean forward, "is that, firstly, he is a just and noble god. And secondly, to be perfectly frank, compared to her, he fucking owns."

They laugh, as brilliant as a bird startled from the brush. You settle back in your chair, warmth flooding your chest, and you even curl your mouth back at them. No. You smile, smug, even as your shoulders square.

"You're a funny one, aren't you? Every time I think you're just so serious, you go and pull the other leg."

Your smile falters. Their legs are small, and stickish. If you pulled..

But they're still talking. "It's great," they say, reaching out to lay a hand across yours. It's warm, warm as their voice. "Most of the priests around here are growing trees up their asses, just between you and me. Nice to have one with some spirit. What's your name, holy boy?"

"The Dilution of the Seeds from a Thousand Roses, Collected from the Hills of Mount Celestia," you tell them.

It takes ten minutes to convince them that you're not joking.

* * *

The conversation goes well. The two of you sit up, and Creed eats, and you drink water, at first, and then wine, when the throbbing in your head begins to get too much. Their house is small, but it's warm, and better yet, it's cozy. It reminds you of your parents home. This late at night, you can't tell if the haze of your memories is from time, or the wine clouding your thoughts.

You don't really care. It's lovely either way, and by the time they show you your room, you're determined to figure out a way to linger here for a few more days. You just don't meet people who enjoy you very often. But Creed..

They seem to like you a great deal. 

And you, as it turns out, enjoy being liked.

They have an actual bed in their spare room, which is more than most can manage. You'd stripped off the scalemail in their kitchen, as soon as you'd walked in the door, so you don't need to undress further. You can just collapse into the bed, and even the hay prodding at you through the mattress doesn't bother you. "Thank you," you tell them, pulling the blanket across your lap. They're leaning against the doorway, watching you, so you don't lay down just yet. "I appreciate all of your generosity. It was very kind of you."

"Nah. Fair's fair. You helped us, and didn't even ask for nothing. This's the least I could do." They push back a strand of their hair, then resume where they were tugging at the hem of their tunic. They're your age, it strikes you. You hadn't paid attention before, but they've got the same long limbs of adolescense, the queer sort of stretch that comes with growth. To have already lost their parents so young..

You'll have to bless their graves tomorrow, you decide. Something to ensure that they'll never rise up against them, and their bodies will remain untouched, no matter what deviant flowers grow up in the swamp. 

"And besides, I really like your company," they add. There's something strange to their voice as they look at you, but you can't read their expression. The light behind them is too strong: their features are black, defined more by the shadows cast upon them than anything concrete. "You're sweet. And smart. And only a little strange. Mind if I take a seat?"

"It's your bed," you say, and they laugh, settling onto the end. "Ah. I enjoyed your company as well." You know how this sort of conversation goes. So you clear your throat and smile at them, letting it stretch far enough that it feels a little uncomfortable on your face. "You are very kind. And curious."

“Curious? Aw, Rose. How could I not be curious? You come on in here, swinging your mace, with that accent, and that hair, and you're already an ordained priest, and you save all of us. And you're not even older than me by, what, a few months? It's amazing." A beat. "You're amazing. More'n'that. Shit, it's just that - you’re kind of perfect,” they laugh, and the sound is like the clatter of a skull breaking on the ground.

When you look at them, their lips curled up into a sheepish grimace. “Sorry.” They're pulling back, running a hand through their hair, and you can’t categorise the emotion in your chest. It’s something intense, strong enough that it defies your usual checklist, slippery enough that it slides away when you try to look at it.

It’s a bone caught and pressing hard against the curves of your throat. All you can do is swallow, and try to work around it. “Sorry. That was - haha, uh. It's just. Well. You're hard to believe. But in a good way. And I'm just -”

“- thoroughly unkind?” you snap, your voice sharp enough that they go still. If you were one of the other neophytes, you think, there would be a grim satisfaction to their wide eyed stare. But you're not vindictive. You're just -

You’re just -

There’s heat in your cheeks. You’re hurt, you decide, and once you’ve got a name to the feeling, it’s easier to lean in. You're hurt that after all you've done to help them, this is how they'll respond: with base accusations, and such raw prejudice, like they haven't even the sense to be ashamed of it.

You'd thought they hadn't sensed anything worng with you. You'd hoped, just for once, that you'd escaped another's judgement.

You were a fucking fool.

“If you are attempting to insinuate I am a construct, mix, then that is frankly offensive.” You take a deep breath, holding up a hand when they start to open their mouth. When you speak, your voice’s even. “Are you a wizard?”

“What?” they ask.

“A wizard is an individual that uses magic to manifest their will on the plane they are currently occupying, often through spells.” But they’re already shaking their head, scarcely a few words into your explanation. You take another breath, but this time, it doesn’t steady you.

It never does, when anger flares up. This is why you went into the priesthood, rather than the clergy, like your parents: reining in your feelings has always been so hard. “Perhaps you are not unkind,” you correct yourself, sharp. “Perhaps you are simply ungrateful, if you are casting accusations without even the knowledge to have confidence in your conclusions.”

“What?” they say again, brows knitting. “Rose -”

“I don’t wish to speak to you further.” A beat. “Or ever again,” you decide, firm, and you lay down, pulling the blanket high up around your ears.

“Good _night,_ mix Creed. I will be gone by the morning.”


End file.
